


Fade

by whitchry9



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Death, Gen, Mental Illness, Supernatural - Freeform, ghost - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-29
Updated: 2013-09-16
Packaged: 2017-12-24 23:43:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/946088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whitchry9/pseuds/whitchry9
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is a ghost, having died in Afghanistan. By sheer power of will, he manages to remain as a ghost. When he meets Sherlock, he finds a reason to stay solid, but after Sherlock falls, John can't help but fade. So when Sherlock returns, and John is nowhere to be found, he starts to fall apart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. John

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a prompt.

The line between living and dying was surprisingly easy to miss.

John Watson didn't notice when he crossed it.

 

It was at least partially his own fault, his damned stubbornness to continue living, despite being shot. So he didn't really notice when he made the transition from his body to his new form, whatever the hell it was.

(He tried not to think about the state of his body, rotting in the ground somewhere. It made his pseudo-skin crawl.)

No one else noticed. (His body was never found, so no one had to face the paradox that was two John Watsons.)

 

 

He went back to London.

 

But he couldn't help but feel like he was fading.

(“Nothing happens to me,” he told Ella, and it was true. More true than she could possibly imagine.)

 

He was surprised Mike Stamford saw him that day, he was feeling particularly translucent.

But then there was Sherlock Holmes, and John had never felt so... solid.

 

The time he spent with Sherlock, solving crimes and being exasperated with body parts in the fridge and bullet holes in the wall, was the best time he'd ever had.

He almost forgot that he was dead.

Still, no one else knew.

For all of Sherlock's genius and knack for seeing through everything (that was funny, John could almost laugh, because literally, _see through_ ) he didn't seem to notice that his flatmate and best friend was different.

Perhaps he chose not to.

Or more likely, John mused, Sherlock was too scientific, and too practical to even consider the evidence he may have been seeing.

Ghosts, after all, were a scientific improbability. _(But not impossibility.)_

 

 

But then Sherlock jumped _(why, why did he have to do that, the stupid prat. I was already dead, I could have taken a bullet or whatever, there was no need for him to be so foolish and now look where it's gotten us, both dead, but only one still here)_ and John lost his anchor.

 

 

It was just so hard to stay, so hard to remain solid enough to touch things, to speak, to appear to people.

He just wanted it all to stop.

 

So he went to therapy with Ella (fat lot of good that did him), and afterwards went with Mrs Hudson to the grave, touched it, like that would help him in some way, and then returned home.

 

There, he just stopped.


	2. Sherlock

 As Sherlock watched John walk away from his grave, he swore his eyes were playing tricks on him.

People couldn't fade, not really. Emotionally, and intellectually, yes, but they couldn't actually lose their colours and become transparent.

Certainly not.

 

He dismissed it.

He had more important things to tend to.

 

 

Mycroft figured it out soon enough that he wasn't dead (that prat) and insisted on 'helping'. His words, not Sherlock's. He'd occasionally call, updating Sherlock on the states of his friends.

 

One of the rare phone calls was when Mycroft attempted to tell him.

 

He'd already told him about the state of Lestrade (not bad, but still, work was hellish, and would continue to be until Sherlock could clear his name, and in turn, Lestrade's reputation), Mrs Hudson (passable, she put on a brave face, but Mrs Turner was growing increasingly worried), and Molly (overly stressed with the pain of keeping Sherlock's secret).

“Oh, but Sherlock.”

“What is it?” He was already tired of listening to his brother even if it had been less than five minutes.

“It's John.”

“What about him?”

Mycroft was silent for a moment.

“He seems to have gone. He may have left London, or he's just hiding quite well, but he hasn't been seen.”

Sherlock chewed on that.

“John was in the military, do try to remember Mycroft. He also lived with me for a relatively long time, and learned many of my camera avoidance techniques. It's likely he just wants be to left alone.”

“Mrs Hudson hasn't seen him.”

Sherlock didn't have any response to that.

“John is capable of taking care of himself,” he said finally. “Goodbye.”

 

They both knew his attempt at disinterest was to mask a growing sense of worry.

 

 

Nine months after he jumped off the building, to the day (Sherlock mused about birth and life, his own rebirth) he returned to London.

 

He saw Mrs Hudson first. She cried. She cried more than Sherlock thought it possible one woman could cry. She hadn't even cried that much after his death.

When she was finally able to keep it together, she spoke.

“I'm just so worried about John. I still haven't seen him. And he just wasn't the same afterwards. He wasn't himself.”

Sherlock nodded, and hugged her, and apologized profusely, but the thought still burned in his mind.

Where was John?

 

Lestrade didn't punch him, even though Sherlock thought he might have, but he certainly was angry. And pleased. (Pleased to hear that his reputation would be restored now that Sherlock was proven to be not a fake.)

He too, was worried about John.

“We couldn't even do a proper investigation, because he's a grown man. There wasn't any signs of foul play, or even any signs of anything. There is nothing. He just... disappeared.”

Sherlock nodded.

 

Molly sobbed in relief about not having to keep the secret anymore.

She wasn't as worried about where John was.

“You weren't here afterwards,” she told Sherlock. “You didn't see him. He probably just had to get away from here, from everything. Maybe he went to travel or joined Doctors Without Borders or something.” She shook her head. “When he hears about you, he'll come back.” She smiled. “I don't think there's a force on this earth that could keep him away then.”

 

 

News of Sherlock's return spread like wildfire after that point.

Mycroft managed to keep the press mostly at bay, but the whole world knew that Sherlock Holmes had returned, and he was most definitely not a fake.

 

He kept waiting for John to return, to walk in the door, exhausted from a long flight, perhaps unshaven and dirty from whatever place he'd been, to look at Sherlock fondly before punching him, but it never happened.

 

Day turned into weeks, and the weeks became a month.

Sherlock became more worried then, the niggle that had been rolling around in his stomach for just so many months growing and threatening to eat him alive if not satisfied. And the only thing to satisfy the worry would be the sight of John, home safely.

 

 

The worry grew and grew, threatening to consume him.

Until one day, it did.

Or at least as near as it could, it did.

Sherlock cried.

 

He'd done this, done _all_ of this for John. (And Lestrade and Mrs Hudson too, but mostly John.) John was the first real friend he'd ever had.

He knew that John may never forgive him for jumping off that roof, but he never predicted this, John disappearing from the face of the earth, never to be seen again by anyone, least of all Sherlock.

It was too much.

 

 

“Sherlock?”

The voice was faint, but unmistakable.

 

Sherlock spun his head around.

John, good old Doctor Watson, was standing in the living room, looking more or less the same as when Sherlock had last seen him.

“How did I get here? Why are you here?” he sounded tired and confused.

“Oh my god, John. I'm not dead. I'm so sorry.” He tripped over his words, terrified that if he took the time to choose more carefully, that John would disappear again, maybe forever. “Where have you been? What happened to you?”

John appeared to fade for a moment, just like Sherlock thought he'd seen that day in the cemetery.

“You died,” he said wearily, and Sherlock had to strain to hear. John was definitely paler than usual, and not just that, but everything about him was less. Less vibrant, brilliant, alive.

 

“It hurt Sherlock. You killed yourself and made me watch.” He sighed. “And then, after that...”

Sherlock couldn't make out what he said, and John's lips were too faint to read.

“... I died.”

“You _died?_ Did you kill yourself? _Over me?_ ”

“No, no-”

He faded for a second, and Sherlock's heart nearly stopped.

“...not your fault.”

Sherlock choked back another sob. “John, I can explain.”

“I don't think you can understand how hard this was for me. I thought you were dead, and...”

He faded again, and Sherlock held his breath waiting for him to come back.

He nearly passed out before he realized that John may not be coming back. Sherlock sucked a breath in between his teeth.

 

“No John...” he whispered. “Come back! Come back!” he screamed. “I have to tell you so much! I did it all for you. I never wanted to hurt you, I need you, I can't do this without you, John, please! I'm so sorry.”

He was sobbing and wailing and hadn't even realized he'd picked up the gun or noticed the presence of someone else in the room until Mrs Hudson shrieked.

“Sherlock!” she squealed. “Put the gun down; you're going to kill yourself.”

Sherlock stilled. That was a good plan.

But there was no need to rush into things. He had to sort out what he'd heard from John, this strange John who was the same, but wasn't, who kept fading in and out of the light, voice no louder than a whisper.

 

 

Of course. John wouldn't want to be a worry. He would have made sure no one would have had to deal with that, especially so soon after Sherlock's death. It would be understandable for John to need to get away.

Just like it had happened.

And it was all Sherlock's fault.


	3. Mycroft

Mycroft's phone rang. Not many people knew that number.

Either the world was ending, it was the second coming, or something equally miraculous/horrific had happened.

“Mycroft.”

The voice is tearful.

“What is it Mrs Hudson?” Mycroft asks, sitting up straighter.

“Sherlock, he's finally... well I don't really know. I heard him talking, then shouting and sobbing, so I went to see what was going on, and he said something about seeing John, and he was waving the gun around-” she broke off into sobs.

“I'll have someone there right away,” he told her.

She sniffled. “I'm so worried about him.”

“I know,” he murmured. “As am I.”

 

 

Mycroft read the report that had been placed on the top of one of the many piles on his desk. It was regarding Sherlock, who had been institutionalized for his own protection. Mycroft hated to do it, but Sherlock was actively suicidal when Mycroft arrived at the flat, and hadn't shown any sign of relenting.

 

He kept saying that he needed to be with John, needed to make things right.

 

But for now, Sherlock was safe and would continue to be safe.

It may very well break Mycroft to keep him safe, locked away where drugs kept him out of his mind palace and dulled his perceptions, but safe, nonetheless.

 

And of course, he certainly couldn't tell Sherlock what had been found when scouring the earth for John over the past months.

 

Skeletal remains of one John Hamish Watson (confirmed by dental, DNA, and whatever Mycroft could find, because he needed to be bloody well sure), died sometime in mid 2009.

Well before he met one Sherlock Holmes on January 29th, 2010.

 

There were some things that even Mycroft Holmes couldn't find out.


End file.
